The leaves around me fall­ing
Are preach­ing of de­cay;
The hol­low winds are call­ing,
Come, pil­grim, come away!
The day, in night de­clin­ing,
Says, I must too de­cline:
The year its life re­sign­ing—
Its lot fore­sha­dows mine.

The light my path sur­round­ing,
The loves to which I cling,
The hopes with­in me bound­ing,
The joys that round me wing—
All, all, like stars at ev­en,
Just gleam, and shoot away;
Pass on be­fore to Hea­ven,
And chide at my de­lay.

The friends gone there be­fore me
Are call­ing me from high,
And joy­ous an­gels o’er me
Tempt sweet­ly to the sky.
Why wait, they say, and wi­ther
Mid scenes of death and sin?
O rise to glo­ry hi­ther,
And find true life be­gin!

I hear the in­vi­ta­tion,
And fain would rise and come—
A sin­ner, to sal­va­tion;
An ex­ile, to his home:
But while I here must lin­ger,
Thus, thus, let all I see
Point on, with faith­ful fin­ger,
To Heav’n, O Lord, and Thee.